


Traditional Thanksgivings

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Established Relationship, Holidays, M/M, Post-Series, Sentinel Thursday Challenge, Slice of Life, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories surface as Jim and Blair prepare to celebrate Thanksgiving</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's website: http://alysbasement.livejournal.com/  
> No disclaimers. I do own them. I may not profit from them, but I own 'em. Just don't tell anyone.  
> This was a Sentinel Thursday challenge story -- the challenge was Memories. :)  
> Takes place three years after TSbyBS

  **Traditional Thanksgivings by Alyjude**  


 

**Traditional Thanksgivings - Blair**

 

Only two Thanksgivings stick out in my mind -- clear as the autumn air today. Of course, maybe the reason for there being only two is because there were only... you know... two.

All right, that's not entirely fair. But come on, Thanksgiving spent on a woven mat in a hut in the middle of--I could insert the name of any foreign country here -- isn't exactly the Thanksgiving as celebrated by the Pilgrims, let alone most of modern America. Neither would eating a vegetarian meal under the stars while in the middle of a corn field in -- here's where I'd insert the name of _any_ agricultural small town in Central California.

Did you notice how I left out the word _traditional_ when speaking of Thanksgivings? Yeah, easy to figure out why, right? Because I only have _two_ traditional Thanksgiving memories.

Traditional Thanksgiving number one was in... taps finger on chin... yeah, in '75. Mom didn't cook the meal but she set the table _and_ made a Thanksgiving centerpiece which I remember vividly. It was beautiful and took even my ungrateful, unappreciative six-year-old breath away because it was a real pumpkin. She'd actually taken a near perfect gourd, scraped out all the innards -- talk about icky -- went outside, gathered fall flowers, branches and leaves, cleaned them meticulously, and then arranged them inside the pumpkin. With her face shining with pride, she'd then placed it in the middle of the small, square, perfectly set table.

At that point, Adam (her man of the moment) came out of the kitchen wearing an apron that only a six-year-old could truly appreciate -- and I did. It had a picture of a featherless turkey that said " _Kiss the cook, he's a turkey_!" I really did love that apron. Anyway, he took one look at the table and centerpiece...and kissed mom. I was peeking over the edge of the table, gawking at the centerpiece when he did it and, even as a small child, I knew the kiss was special. I don't know how I knew, but it was good enough for me to take my eyes off the pumpkin to watch them instead....

_"You smell like sage."_

_"This is a bad thing?"_

_Naomi touched her lips lightly before smiling. "No, not at all. Sage is very cleansing."_

_"Then my turkey will be the cleanest bird in Lakewood, California," Adam answered with his own smile. He indicated the centerpiece, gave her a breathy "Wow" before saying, "You done good, woman." He looked across the table and grinned at the curls and blue eyes he could just see peeking over the top of the table. "What say you about your mom's centerpiece, Blair?"_

_"it's groovy."_

_"Groovy, eh? Yep, that's the word." He kissed Naomi's cheek. "The turkey's out and resting--"_

_"the turkey has to rest before i can eat it?"_

_Laughing, Adam said, "Yep. That way, all the juices will stay where they belong and the meat will be moist and delicious. Anyway, I'm going to bring everything else in now just  so I can watch your eyes bug out of their sockets.  Then, just when you can't stand it a minute more, I'll bring the turkey out. How does that sound?"_

_Blair quickly scrambled up and onto his chair, folded his hands and, eyes shining, said, "go -- hurry!"_

_This time it was Naomi who laughed delightedly as she took her seat opposite her son. Adam touched the back of her head, his fingers fluffing her hair. "Okay, I'm going. Be ready to be amazed and astounded."_

_He disappeared into the kitchen and, a moment later, reappeared bearing two dishes held in hands protected by oven mitts. He set them down, winked at Blair, and turned back to the kitchen. Blair, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in anticipation, stretched upward in order to see the additions to the cranberry sauce, roll basket and gravy bowl that had been brought out much earlier. He blinked several times as he said, "marshmellows, mommy. there's marshmellows on that one. i love marshmellows! is that dessert?"_

_"No, honey, that's Adam's famous mashed sweet potato casserole." She pointed to another bowl. "This dish has bacon in it and you're going to love it. The bacon is Italian and is called pancetta, but it's still bacon."_

_Blair scrunched up his face. "but those are green beans. ick."_

_"Yes, but I bet you end up loving them. I challenge you try them and prove me wrong, okay?"_

_He nodded excitedly just as Adam returned carrying two more bowls. One had what Blair easily recognized as mashed potatoes with golden butter swimming on top. They smelled so good, Blair was tempted to get on his knees to get closer to them. He loved mashed potatoes. The other bowl had what he'd been told was 'stuffing'. Adam had shown him a picture of how it would look because he'd been afraid he was actually going to be forced to eat the insides of a turkey. But this was bread and other good things like crunchy celery, pecans and apples which were all mushed together and then 'stuffed' inside to cook with the turkey. This would, according to Adam, allow the stuffing to sop up all the good turkey juices. Already the smell was making his mouth water._

_Adam came back again, this time with a bottle of wine in one hand and a pitcher of milk in the other. He smiled as he filled Blair's goblet. "Next time I come out will be the last -- and I'll have our turkey. Hold onto your hat, Blair, it's a beaut."_

_Sure enough, a minute later, Adam re-joined them, this time with a big platter. He set it down in front of his place-setting and asked, "Well, what do you think?"_

_Eyes grown even wider as he took in his dinner, Blair said in a voice full of awe, "it's... it's beautiful, daddy!"_

Oh, yeah, I called him "daddy" and I'll never forget my mother's face when I said it, either.

Or his.

They were a study in opposites what with Adam's eyes shining above a wide, happy grin -- and mom whose smile had faded and whose eyes had lost some of their glow.

But back to the meal. The turkey -- well, it really had been beautiful and the stuffing as delicious as I'd known it would be. The sweet potatoes had been glorious and mom turned out to be right about the green beans; I had two helpings. Adam had roasted them with a bit of olive oil and salt before sautéing them in balsamic vinegar and the pancetta.

Amazing what we remember, isn't it?

By chance, I found the recipe for them about seven years ago. I was waiting in a doctor's office two weeks before another Thanksgiving -- one that would eventually find me in Africa -- and was surrounded by magazines adorned with fancy turkey dinners on their covers. Since I had time to kill, I picked one up and started leafing through it -- until I spotted the recipe. I'm not ashamed to say that with a somewhat shaking hand, I tore it out. I was a twenty-five-year-old macho man and there I was, tearing out a recipe. I folded it carefully and stuck it in my wallet where it remained for years. Okay, the wallet changed -- more than a couple of times -- but the recipe got moved each and every time.

By the way, do I really have to mention that Mom and Adam didn't last? Their relationship was six months long but the majority of it was behind us by the time Thanksgiving arrived. We were out of his life by Hanukkah. To this day, I don't know why, but it tore me up -- not that I ever shared that fact with Mom.

When I think back on Adam, look at that time with him through more mature eyes, I'm convinced Mom really loved him. In fact, he might have been the only one she _ever_ loved. But I never asked, even as I got older and could ask her adult things.

Okay, enough of memory number one. On to numero dos.

Simon's house.   Six years ago.

I was only there by accident but it was a great Thanksgiving anyway.

And in case you've forgotten, I'd lost my warehouse thanks to a drug lab next door and had temporarily [sic] moved in with Jim, who'd been invited to Simon's home for the holiday. Simon was in the middle of his divorce and, since Daryl was spending the holiday with his mother and her parents, Simon had wanted to be surrounded by friends. He and Jim had grown pretty close following the Sunshine Patriot thing, so naturally, Jim was at the top of the invitation list, along with a few others from the PD. And no, the invite hadn't included me. I was still a non-entity to Simon... a kind of necessary evil; a short, annoying insect buzzing around Jim that Simon couldn't get rid of no matter how he tried. Hence, no invite, not that I actually viewed its lack as a rude act -- not at all. I understood it was more of a " _Sandburg, who_?" thing. Simon simply hadn't given me a second thought.

But Jim had; and in a very Jim-like way, by simply assuming that I'd go with him.

Yeah, the same guy who'd fought so hard against my moving in with him (he'd fought for two whole minutes) just naturally assumed I'd be a part of the day. The fact that I could cook circles around him (and he's no slouch in the kitchen himself) probably had a lot to do with the assumption -- at least on a subconscious level. See, while Simon had planned to do the turkey, stuffing and vegetables, he'd commanded -- scratch that -- _requested_ that everyone bring  an item to round out the meal. Jim figured he'd get away with a bag of rolls (not that he wouldn't gladly cook -- if you were a redhead with long legs) until he remembered me. Which was why, on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, he put down the paper he'd been reading and asked, oh, so innocently, "What are you planning on making for Simon's Thanksgiving, Chief? We're supposed to bring something."

Yep, that's my Sentinel.

If he'd tried anything like that today, he'd receive a ton of grief from me.  But back then, well, I was twenty-six, eager to please him and full of hero worship.   I was still feeling luckier than anyone had a right to feel; thanks to finding my sentinel _and_ being alive to enjoy him. Hence I answered happily, "I make this great pumpkin lasagna -- we could bring that?"

Did you just make a face? You did, I can tell. Well, trust me, you haven't lived until you've tried my pumpkin lasagna. It's to die for and I can prove it by the simple fact that no matter what time of year, if there's a Major Crime get-together, I'm ordered to bring it.  Hell, they even asked for it at the Fourth of July picnic.

Damn, now where was I? Oh, yeah, the lasagna. Anyway, Jim, happy in the knowledge that he'd be bringing something truly imaginative and edible (that hadn't come out of a bag and that he didn't need to prepare), immediately went back to his paper while we waited for the game to begin.

By the way, yes, my lasagna meant making a midnight run to the grocery store and yep, I was up at the crack of dawn the next day to make it and stick it in the freezer since working with a cop _and_ doing the whole school thing doesn't guarantee time to make a dish for Thanksgiving.

Okay, so back to the big day.

Everyone was due around noon simply because one game would be ending and there was a brief break before the next one would begin. I think they plan it that way for folks who have to travel on Thanksgiving. At eleven, Jim walked downstairs, dressed and ready to go the minute the game ended. Should I mention how he looked good enough to eat?

He did. But only in retrospect. At the time, all I remember thinking was how typical of the man I was coming to know that he'd get ready early. I also remember thinking that he smelled better than my lasagna.

We left right on time, and I had to hand it to Simon, when he opened the door to find me standing with Jim, he barely blinked. Of course, it might have been the covered dish in my hand, but whatever the reason, he welcomed us both into his home as if I _had_ been expected.

I remember being very glad that Joel Taggart was there, as well as my buddy, Henri Brown (in spite of the fact that he'd been the one to come up with 'Hairboy'). The other two guests were, at the time, unknown, but are good friends today. One was Sam Reynolds, who now heads up Homicide but back then ran the Twenty-First precinct; and Matt Bauer, a young Robbery detective who is now one of our DA's.

Beers were offered almost immediately, and gratefully accepted. It might have been only noon, but Henri had summed it up nicely when he's announced, "It's three in New York."

Most profound.

One of the things I still remember was how surprised I was by Simon's house; by the size of it. But of course, as I look back, I shouldn't have been. He's a big man and needs his space.

Once we had the beers in our hands, we were ushered through the living room (nice, big, airy, but NO television) to the family room, which I nearly fell into. Seemed you had to step down, a fact that I'd missed. Jim, as usual, was there to catch me. The typical remarks about how early I must have started on the beers were said, and I chuckled like I was supposed to even as I was taking in my surroundings.

While the living room had the mark of  Joan, Simon's soon-to-be ex, the family room was pure Simon, meaning it was all about comfort and easy access to man's best friends: the television and the outdoor deck with the barbecue. The room itself had two couches, a couple of overstuffed chairs and a lounger (clearly Simon's and just as clearly marked, "Ass off" for anyone else). Simon had set up several TV trays and the food was on a long side table which meant no one had to miss a minute of a football game to get food.

As the day progressed, Jim never once forgot me, and seamlessly included me in everything. To this day, I'm eternally grateful for the implied trust. That Thanksgiving could have been one of the worst of my then 'two' traditional holidays. But thanks to Jim, it had been terrific and one of my most cherished memories. He made sure we sat together on the couch, included me in every conversation. Okay, he really had to work hard at that since most conversations were about the game and he knew how I felt about football.  So even though most sentences ended or started with, "Is that damn ref blind? A ten-yard penalty for _what_?" or "Did you see that pass? I'm going to heaven on that pass!",  they always ended with Jim nudging me and asking, "Right, Chief?"

When it came time to eat, in keeping with the theme of not leaving a game, the meal was served buffet style. My lasagna went over great, and damn if Jim didn't preen as if I were his own personal discovery or something. Anyway, it's safe to say that the camaraderie of that day held me through some tough times later on. I was accepted because I was with Jim, and sure, I knew that, but friendships were made that day; friendships that have withstood the test of time, trials and even being called a fraud. Sure, everyone had a great time making fun of my dislike of football -- which Jim just __had__ to share with them.  But since I understand the game and yeah, know what's going on when forced to watch, their ribbing was restricted to remarks questioning the masculinity of men who don't enjoy football. Like that would bother _me_? I don't think so. Let's face it, I'm used to remarks about my masculinity -- long hair and jewelry, don't you know.

So basically, the memories of that Thanksgiving; the smells, laughter and jokes -- along with the great food -- have never left me. I remember the cold, blustery day and how warm and cozy it was inside. I remember the smell of turkey (touched lightly by the odor of Simon's cigar), and can still hear the sounds of very happy men, stuffed to the gills and watching football. I remember feeling almost like I belonged -- which was strange because no matter where I'd ever been or who I'd been with (and in spite of how well I've always _acted_ as though I belonged), I'd never really experienced that feeling. I think it's an anthropologist-type thing. Or a Sandburg-type thing. Nah, it was definitely anthropological. Mom belongs everywhere. She may settle no where, but she belongs wherever she is. I, on the other hand, wanted to belong everywhere we landed, but quickly learned that was a fool's dream.

Now I'm sounding ungrateful and that's just wrong. My life with my mother really was terrific. I lived the way most can only dream about.  And thanks to my choice of anthropology as a career, adventures continued. But man, once I'd moved in with Jim....

Yeah, it always comes back to him.

Maybe for good reason. I guess I learned about _home_ through a man who'd lost his early on. I learned about friendship from a man who trusted rarely; had been burned often and, as a result, had damn few friends. But the ones he did have were forever. Which begs the question: Why no great Thanksgivings since that first one with Jim, Simon and the rest of the guys?

Well, actually, there were, but none could be deemed traditional by any means. When Simon's divorce became final and the custody arrangements firmed up, he spent the next few Thanksgivings with his son and his own family. As for Jim and I, well, we worked the next three Thanksgivings because Jim decided to go back to giving the married detectives a break. Thus the next several holidays were spent eating on the run because, for some reason, Cascade was never quiet on Thanksgiving. Big surprise.

Most of those holiday meals were eaten (but never finished) in either Jim's truck or the lunch room and sure, because they were with Jim, were always wonderful, but no one could call them traditional.

"Sandburg, what the hell are you doing?"

Oops.

"Nothing, Jim. Just making a few notes in my journal."

"Well, in case it escaped your notice, we have company arriving on our doorstep in about forty minutes and you're not even dressed. Not that I'm normally bothered by that fact, but in this case, not dressed doesn't translate to being naked, it just means you're still in your sweat bottoms and socks."

Pen down and journal closed, I look over at the doorway and smile. "I could get naked in very little time, Jim."

He stroked his chin and then gave me that grin. You know -- _that_ _\--_ grin. Well, maybe you don't.

It's been a lot of years since that Thanksgiving with Simon and well, Jim and I are kind of together now. All right, not 'kind of', but totally together, and we're hosting our first Thanksgiving as a couple. The year I became an official consultant for Major Crime, Jim and I were new to our relationship and spent Thanksgiving chasing down a couple of twin killers. The next year, I was in the hospital (thanks to appendicitis) and Jim slept by my bedside. Go figure.

Last year we spent it with Simon and his new bride, Catherine. Daryl and his girlfriend were there, as were Joel and his Debbie, with Megan and Rafe rounding out the guest list. Henri, unfortunately, spent the day at his future (now present) in-laws. We heard about it for weeks after and it almost blew the wedding. Seemed that daddy-in-law hated football and mommy-in-law made you take your shoes off when you entered the house. Things had gone downhill from there. This year, Henri and his wife of four months are coming here. Heh.

"So, Chief, are you waiting for Christmas, or what? Get naked already."

Laughing, I got to my feet. "I prefer help -- but first, did you finish the cranberry sauce?"

"Of course. And who decided that I should make it from scratch, by the way?"

"That would have been... me," I said rather cheekily. "It just seemed that since we have a real house, it was only fitting that you should make cranberry sauce from scratch."

"Oh yeah, that makes tons of sense. Not."

I'm not really listening to him because he's taken me up on my offer to help me get naked.

Excuse me for a bit -- I'll be back later.

***

I'm back.

"What's that?" Jim asked, his chin resting on my shoulder.

We're in the kitchen, our sexual interlude still coloring my world golden.

"Balsamic vinegar. I'll be sautéing the roasted green beans in it, along with some pancetta and onions."

"Wow," he said in admiration. "That really sounds good."

"I love our new kitchen. Double ovens are the only way to have Thanksgiving."

"We did good in designing this room, didn't we?" His pride is evident in his voice.

"Oh, yeah."

Jim notices the recipe on the counter -- notices the age and the many folds. He picked it up. "This has seen better days. What's the story?"

"I'll let Adam tell you when he gets here."

"Adam? This recipe is about Adam?"

"Yep."

"Well, I'll be. So my new father-in-law has cooking secrets?"

I smile. "Oh, yeah. You two will have a great deal in common, by the way. Especially in the area of aprons. Make sure you ask him about _his_ Thanksgiving one."

Jim smiled again, the one that tends to knock me off my feet. It's the "I'm so lucky" smile. "I will."

Just then, the doorbell rang. Jim cocked his head -- then smiled. "Speaking of...and they're laughing. They sound good."

You're probably wondering about Adam now, aren't you? Well, mom met him again about four months ago. She's different now, older and wiser, so it was much easier to embrace the love she'd run away from all those years ago. They were actually married on Halloween and I'll tell you about that some other day, but for now, I simply slipped my arm around Jim's waist and, together, we went to let my mom and...dad...in.

This Thanksgiving is going to start a whole new set of memories. The first of many, I suspect.

 

Continued in chapter two.


	2. Chapter 2

  **Traditional Thanksgivings - Jim  
**

 

The smell in our home is driving me crazy. I could dial down but I'm not going to. I've waited too long for these very odors. Funny that I'd forgotten how much I loved the smell of roasting turkey. Haven't experienced it in... what, six years? Yeah, I'm pretty sure the last time was at Simon's right after Sandburg moved in -- temporarily forever.  
  
That particular Thanksgiving ranks right up near the top of my most memorable. In retrospect, it's easy to see that Sandburg was the reason, but at the time, I just figured it was nice feeling a part of something again.  
  
During my marriage to Carolyn, holidays were fraught with traps and I never knew where the next one might be hiding, so I count my blessings that there'd been only one Thanksgiving. We went to her folks' place where I made like the polite husband trying only to say all the right things. Unfortunately, the day was just so many family fights and squabbles with Caro swearing that we'd never do it again because her mother drove her crazy and if she was asked one more time when we were going to have children, she'd kill herself. If you're taking notes: There is absolutely _nothing_ a man can say to that. Nothing. At least, not if he values his life -- and the family jewels.  
  
Thanksgivings in the military weren't half bad. Hardly traditional in the family sense, but the good old US of A makes certain her men and women eat right on the holidays. Of course, I was usually on duty -- my choice -- so found myself eating leftovers more often than not. But hey, I love a turkey sandwich the day after, so I was always happy, and if I could smear the bread with that jellied cranberry sauce, so much the better.  
  
Once I joined the Cascade PD, and prior to my marriage, Thanksgiving simply meant working; it was a normal day for me. And after the marriage ended, more of the same.  
  
Then there were the early years -- the childhood years. Now I know Sandburg hasn't had a whole hell of a lot of traditional Thanksgivings either, and I also know that when he was younger, he yearned for them, so one of these days I should tell him they're not so great. I don't think he really understands what it's like for most families -- then and now.  
  
I don't think he knows that the mother gets up early -- before her two sons and husband -- gets the thawed turkey out of the fridge, removes that stupid bag of innards, rinses the bird and, while it's drying, makes the huge bowl (an heirloom) of stuffing. She sautes the freshly chopped onions, celery and mushrooms in butter, toasts the bread cubes herself, adds chopped apples, pine nuts and chicken stock and then mixes it by hand. By the time her seven-year-old and four-year-old get up, the turkey's been stuffed, rubbed with butter, tented and in the oven and she's working on a couple of quick breads. She has dishes (the good ones -- the ones used only once a year) to get out and wash, silver (her husband's grandmother's) to set out (they were polished the day before) and linen to "press for the creases".  
  
While her sons play out back, and her husband sits in the family room watching one of the many holiday football games, she opens two cans of yams, places them in a baking dish, mixes them with brown sugar, dots them with butter and finally tops them with marshmallows -- the big square ones, not the little miniature ones. This is a concession for her older son who really thinks the miniatures are for babies. She's already scrubbed the potatoes so they'll be ready for cooking and mashing later. The green beans were washed and trimmed on Wednesday, the mushroom soup added and the whole thing poured into another baking dish. They'll be trimmed with French fried onions later in the day and then cooked at the insistence of her husband, who can't have Thanksgiving without his mother's famous green-bean casserole -- and no, he refuses to believe his mother didn't invent it.  
  
By ten, she's finished enough of the preparations that she can make breakfast for her family. And even though they're going to be eating dinner early -- at least early for them -- she fixes French toast because her younger son loves it. Of course, now that she's made a meal, she has to clean up while her sons scamper back outside to play in the huge piles of fall leaves. Her husband answers the phone after yelling that his wife should get it and, after thirty minutes, comes in to tell her he has to go into the office for a couple of hours. He gives her a barely-there peck on the cheek before rushing out to stave off a minor company crisis that will make him look good in the eyes of the Chairman of the Board.  
  
She's left behind to make the rolls -- yeast rolls. But at least the pies are done.  
  
The families are due to arrive at two and she still has to get the boys ready. They have to be bathed and then cajoled into their Sunday best clothes. They also have to wear ties which means she has to put up with complaining and crying, especially from the younger one. She hasn't taken her own shower yet and her husband is still off fighting for corporate America.  
  
At one, the boys are spic and span and already edgy. She's managed her shower and, while dressing and doing her hair, her eyes stray to the nightstand and the books she has piled on top of each other. Books like "The Feminine Mystique" and "The Second Sex".  
  
At one-fifty, the man of the house finally walks in, tired and feeling put upon. He's immediately asked to help in the kitchen -- which results in a fight that the older son recognizes all too easily (it's the one about how dad works hard to put food on the table and that it's mom's job to prepare it), so he takes his younger brother outside and they sit on the front stoop. Which is where they are when the first car pulls up and the maternal grandparents get out amid much "Oh, hasn't he grown" and "Would you look at those blue eyes."  
  
By two-thirty, all the relatives are on board, including the paternal grandparents. A game is on and the husband is making nice and fixing drinks while cracking a few jokes about the wife's cooking and how her yams are nothing like his mother's (even though it's her recipe, followed to the letter, except the yams aren't canned). His mother is very appreciative of the compliment even though her husband of forty years snorts into his martini -- his third.  
  
The children are brought out and put on parade and after cheeks have been pinched and kissed, and the ties have been complimented, the younger son complains about said tie so grandmother suggests he take it off. The father, while shooting a killer look at his wife, immediately agrees with his mother, in spite of the fact that he was the one who demanded they wear ties in the first place.  
  
The mother keeps excusing herself to go into the kitchen and baste the turkey, even as the mother-in-law tells her she should have bought a self-basting turkey and her own mother tells her she should have used the maple syrup basting recipe of her mother's.  
  
In the kitchen, the mother experiences a modicum of peace as she prepares another tray of hors d'oeuvres. She wonders how much more "family" she can take.  
  
Back in the living room, Uncle Ralph is slowly getting drunk, followed closely by Grandpa Joseph. They're also arguing about the game.  
  
At three-thirty, the relatives start asking if dinner is "ready yet?" in spite of the fact that they've known for weeks that it's scheduled for four. Both boys have had too much candy from the bridge mix in the crystal candy dish sitting on the coffee table and the father has to yell at them and threaten to send them to their room if they don't settle down. He naturally accuses the mother of not being able to" handle" them. His mother agrees and gets into a fight with the mother's mother about raising children and how their mother is too lenient and the boys will grow up to be hooligans. The younger son wants to know what a "hooligan" is and the older son tells him to shut-up at which time the maternal grandfather says something along the lines of how when he said improper things as a child, he'd get his mouth washed out with soap and if the father was any kind of a man, that's what he'd do.  
  
Older son decides he should take younger son outside -- pronto.  
  
At four on the dot (after filling the water glasses and lighting the candles), the mother announces that dinner is ready. Now the father steps in and proudly carries the turkey out into the dining room as if he'd been the one to spend all day cooking and basting it. He proceeds to carve it up in front of everyone while the boys clap excitedly -- but then they'd have clapped for anything by then.  
  
Paternal grandfather asks about the salad, "Why isn't there a green salad, we always have a green salad for Thanksgiving," and the maternal grandmother says they should have a Jell-o salad, while Great-Aunt Theresa says a chopped vegetable salad would be the real tradition and why hadn't the mother used the recipe she'd so painstakingly sent her two weeks ago?  
  
Everyone praises the father for the delicious turkey, saying it's the most moist turkey they've ever eaten. Even the maternal grandmother agrees that her son-in-law did a fine job.  
  
Older son looks over his mother -- he's clearly puzzled by this strange reversal. He was pretty darn sure the only person who had anything to do with the turkey was his mom.  
  
When the meal is over and Great-Uncle Sedgwick (his name has been changed to protect the guilty) loosens his belt, burps loudly, and is swatted by his wife for his rudeness. Maternal grandmother asks grandson number one if he enjoyed his Thanksgiving and he naturally answers how it isn't over -- there's still the pumpkin pies and can he change now? His shirt is making him itch. He's told no by his father and yes by his mother. He stays put.  
  
While everyone else goes into the family room for after-dinner coffee and various liqueurs of choice, the mother starts cleaning up the dining room. She carries out all the leftovers first, packs them up and puts them in the fridge for tomorrow. She scrapes all the dishes, rinses them and places them carefully into the new dishwasher -- all except the serving pieces -- they're too old to risk in a modern convenience, so she washes them by hand. Once the kitchen is cleaned up, she starts the dishwasher and then takes the dessert dishes and silverware into the dining room, along with the pies. She'll make the whipped cream later. She glances down at her heirloom tablecloth -- at the gravy stains and cranberry mess -- and thinks this might be the last Thanksgiving it will ever see.  
  
Maybe for her as well.  
  
When she finally joins the rest of the family, there's no place for her to sit so she sits on the floor and smiles when her younger son crawls into her lap.  
  
She has two more glasses of wine but her peace is short-lived when everyone decides they're ready for dessert. When no one makes any move to help themselves, she gives her younger son over to her elder and slowly rises. She makes the whipped cream and then carries the dishes into the family room before going back for the pies and whipped cream -- with help from her elder son who decides he's definitely old enough and tall enough to carry the pies, one in each hand. He balances them carefully and makes it to the coffee table without mishap.  
  
When the pies are history, and so are the guests, she's left with a mess in the family room and two cranky children. The husband is in his favorite chair watching another football game and when she asks him to take the children upstairs and get them ready for bed, he doesn't answer. She asks again and gets a wave of a hand. When she asks a third time, he asks her if she had to go to work today and to please give him some peace. The older son takes the younger son upstairs.  
  
The mother bathes both boys and gets them into their pajamas. She puts them to bed, brushes hair from foreheads and kisses each of them on the cheek. Into the ear of the elder, she whispers, "Love you, Jimmy. Thank you for your help today."  
  
She changes and removes her make-up before going back downstairs. She finishes off the dessert dishes, tidies up the house and the family room and then goes back upstairs. She lies down on the big bed and picks up one of her many books. She decides to wait until after the new year to leave her husband.  
  
And sons.  
  
She can make it that long -- she hopes.  
  
Okay, so that last part might not be typical of a traditional Thanksgiving, but the rest? Oh, yeah.  
  
Families are families and every dysfunction known to man somehow manages to come forth during the holidays. I've never figured out why -- only that it's a great truth. So why am I looking forward to _this_ Thanksgiving? To both our families joining us? To our friends joining us? In our new home, yet, with its brand new kitchen designed by Sandburg and me?  
  
Damned if I know.  
  
Except -- Blair makes everything so easy and joyful. So far, this cooking "for the relatives" has been fun, as in... fun. Even making the cranberry sauce from scratch. Of course, Sandburg showing up wearing nothing but an apron didn't hurt -- other than the fact that I finally had to throw out the first batch. ::sigh:: But it was worth it.  
  
Now that I think about it, Sandburg and I aren't exactly typical, let alone traditional. On top of the whole gay thing, there's the sentinel and his little buddy thing. No, traditional isn't a word I'd use to describe anything we do. Even our lovemaking is far from traditional -- even for male/male sex. If you knew the books my partner has on the variations of sexual positions and erotica, well, hell, sex will never grow old with Sandburg. And do we have to say anything about his being an _anthropologist_? I didn't think so.  
  
::whop::  
  
"Sandburg, did you just hit me on the ass?"  
  
"Now that you mention it... yes, I did, Jim. But if you object, I can withhold the desire for all future time."  
  
"Did you hear anything that sounded like an objection?"  
  
"The question, coming from a sentinel, for whom it would be impossible for ANYONE to sneak up on, let alone strike him on an intimate portion of his anatomy, by its very nature, was objecting."  
  
"Wow, you really were in court a long time yesterday."  
  
"Your point?"  
  
"You could hit me again."  
  
"That sounds like a man with an abuse problem, Jim."  
  
I hold out my arms. "Abuse me, Sandburg."  
  
He's grinning. One of my favorite grins. It means any further cooking, cleaning or otherwise preparing for our guests might just be on hold. Which would make this the second round since I finished the cranberry sauce. Round one came when I got on his case for writing in his journal when he should have been helping me. I'll use any excuse under the sun to get into his shorts. And vice versa.  
  
But this will have to be a quickie, up against the wall, fast and fun.  
  
*****  
  
"You know, getting semen off the wall on Thanksgiving might be --"  
  
"Very traditional in many homes, Sandburg."  
  
"Not any homes _Simon_ is used to entering."  
  
"He enters _this_ home all the time."  
  
"Okay, okay, you win. Happy now?"  
  
I know I'm preening. "Very."  
  
He's done with his portion of the clean up and walks away from me, heading for the kitchen. I follow, not willing to be out of his sight today. The house is ready, the table set. We did it all together.  
  
I still can't get used to the idea that we have a formal dining room.  
  
Neither can Sandburg. I catch him stealing looks at it all the time. The house isn't large, not by any means. We have a small living room to the right of the entry (I love the entry, the tiled floor, the antique table and mirror that faces you when you walk in, and the antique coat rack, lovingly restored by yours truly) but we don't spend much time there. No, it would be the den (neither of us can actually call it a "family room") that sees the most of us. Comfortable, lots of windows that showcase our backyard and a new plasma television. You haven't lived until you watch the Jags on that puppy.  
  
Our bedroom is in the back of the house (and yes, we have a guest room, which Naomi and her new husband, Adam, will be using tonight) and it's our pride and joy -- even over the kitchen. Not so surprising, considering we're two healthy, young, all-American men.  
  
The bed is a king, we have a slider that opens onto a side deck and an oasis of greenery. Our own bit of wild Washington. We've been here for over six months and I can't tell you how many late afternoons and evenings have been spent sitting out there, fingers entwined, not talking, just enjoying.  
  
Blair was uncertain about any kind of move out of the city -- me being the Sentinel of the Great City and all.  But when we were shown this place -- on a hill above Cascade -- it was all over. The best of both worlds. Wildness behind us, the city -- _our_ city -- below us. Can't beat that with the proverbial stick. And believe it or not, the drive to the station doesn't take any longer then it did when we were on Prospect.  
  
Shit, did I mention the office? Yeah, we have one of those too. It's off our bedroom and used to be a large walk-in closet. But let's face it, two men do _not_ need a walk-in closet, so Sandburg and I converted it to a study. We have an armoire for our suits and two dressers for everything else. The bedroom is, fortunately, large enough to accommodate all of that, plus the bed, two nightstands and a chair by the side window. Yeah, the bedroom is truly the best part of the house.  
  
Although... during basketball season, that plasma television....  
  
Okay... back to traditional Thanksgivings.  
  
You know, I think Sandburg and I are starting a whole new kind, and not the type of tradition you have to be afraid of, either. Yes, I wish my mother could be here today, but as Sandburg says, "She's watching over you, Jim. Trust me on this."  
  
I do. Trust him. On everything.  
  
I may not have shared my Thanksgiving memories with Sandburg, but I've shared enough of the years before Mom left that he was able to help me decipher them and thus understand her. I realize now that she never had a chance to be the woman she dreamed of becoming back in the sixties and early seventies. Her life was cut short before she could embrace both it and her children. I'm just sorry that it took so long to understand the woman who gave me life.  
  
This Thanksgiving is the start of new traditions for Sandburg and me -- and new memories. We'll have family and friends by our side, we'll rest up, enjoy the day, enjoy them. You see, we truly _are_ thankful because we found one another and we're alive to enjoy that fact.  
  
Makes all the difference.  
  
Okay, that was the sappiest I've ever been and it's all Sandburg's fault.  
  
Everything always is. ::snerk::  
  
The End

  
**Disclaimer:** All characters from **The Sentinel** are the property of Pet Fly Productions, Danny Bilson and Paul DeMeo, and Paramount (so they should do something about it - like release seasons 2-4 on DVD). Characters from any other television show, movie, or book are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. We believe the works contained in this archive to be transformative in nature and therefore protected under the 'fair use' provisions of copyright law.

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